adventures in raising three boys

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it’s been 15 days. i thought i’d get used to it. i’m not. and then i am. then i’m not again.

it’s vain, yes. but it’s right there. it’s hard to miss and hard to forget when it’s right there every single time i look in a mirror. sometimes i forget, if for a second, and reach up to scratch and realize, oh, yeah, a doctor slashed my throat. mustn’t forget that.

then there are moments where i think, yeah, i have a slash scar across my neck. goes well with my new tattoo, methinks. oh, and i guess i’ll get a new pair of black kickass boots (to match the ones i wore out years ago and never replaced) and i will rock this new look.

then i think, aww, shit. it will never go away.

it makes sense that this is all hitting me right now. i’m about to go on a journey across the big ocean to do things one does when they cross a big ocean. things like meeting new people and sailing on boats and eating great food and drinking great drinks and laughing deep belly laughs. so deep you try hard to not spill your drink as you hold your side cause it hurts so bad to laugh this hard and OH MY GOD remember not to throw you head back as you laugh because … there’s that scar.

last time i crossed the big ocean on a different journey altogether i had with me a little book i found in the airport. it was called little bee, actually, and it was a sweet and horrific story all wrapped into one. the cover caught my eye.

this time when i go on my adventure i’m going to meet new people and … isn’t meeting new people all about first impressions? i know i shouldn’t care but i do and i have purple glue stuck to my neck and it still kinda aches and i don’t want to be a wuss.

i am not a wuss.

and for the record, i really do know that nobody gives a rat’s ass. seriously. getoveryourselfalready.

i am going on a journey and i will meet new people and i will shine and i will laugh and maybe throw my head back once or twice, but only a little. and i will hope (know) that this scar, the one i will now carry throughout my life, isn’t such a big deal after all. in fact, i’m going into it thinking that maybe, just maybe, they’ll all look past it and say:

HOLY SHIT, those are some kickass boots.

From Little Bee, since it seems so appropriate right about now:

“On the girl’s brown legs there were many small white scars. I was thinking, Do those scars cover the whole of you, like the stars and moons on your dress? I thought that would be pretty too, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars a s beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, ‘I survived’.

In a few breaths’ time I will speak some sad words to you. But you must hear them as we have agreed to see scars now. Sad words are just another beauty. A sad story means the storyteller is alive. The next thing you know, something fine will happen to her, something marvellous, and then she will turn round and smile.”